Flotsam is that which is washed off the deck: jetsam that which is cast aside, into the salt, over the deep. Washed by sun and smoothed by the tide, it ultimately finds it’s way to shore, where it beaches in the intertidal zone. The marginal space. The Edge Land.
Claimed by both, the liminal space of the surf is neither truly ocean, nor land: a space of deposit and erosion, of wrack and wreck. It is a space of salvation, or the space from which we are washed away.
Walk along the beach and gather the firewood: in all shapes and sizes, until you hold an armful.
Cured by the summer sun, dried by the wind, gather round stones and strike a spark.
A driftwood fire will burn with a fierce light, a rainbow flame.
That which is cast aside, washed away, brings light.
Take the last two splinters from the flame: make a cross. From the margins, from the discarded, a driftwood cross to carry a light.